


It Might as Well be Raining

by sgtfarron



Series: Nights [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, neurodivergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgtfarron/pseuds/sgtfarron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you just need an escape. Even a small one will do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Might as Well be Raining

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of in a similar vein to "nights like these" though less somber? I think. You'll see. I think I'm a bit rusty. Idk about this but hope you enjoy nonetheless.
> 
> As always you can find me at sgt-farron.tumblr.com

 

If ever was a time that you actively did not like seeing Root it was when you had knocked a few back. But being who she was Root had a knack at being any and every place you happen to be with or without invitation the moment your mind drifts over to her for too long, almost like she could read your mind and was summoned by your thoughts but too ignorant or too stubborn to heed what those thoughts spoke: stay away. 

Not that you  _ actually _ want her to stay away. 

You came to terms with that a long time ago. You  _ like _ the stuff she gives you, the  _ fun _ activities (sexy, illegal or both) she propositions you with on an almost regular basis that help color in your otherwise gray, drab,  _ dull _ routine of everyday life that you’ve never been able to find anything even remotely resembling ‘meaning’ in. 

While you could say you are thankful to Finch for giving you a place after the ISA dropped you on your ass, a place you could still be useful (“something to do” your mind whispers), you’ve never been built like other people. Working the numbers becomes a routine of its own that at times has the same creeping  _ dullness _ seeping in that you need an escape from. 

An escape that allows for a little more violence; a little more adrenaline. 

Just the kind of escape Root tends to have in spades, always varying in color and intensity, always  _ good _ and always  _ fun _ (not that you tell her; you have a suspicion that she knows anyways given how she just seems to  _ know _ the stuff that’s up for a repeat and what’s not after one go).

No, you like having her around. That’s exactly the problem though. The part of you that seems to maybe give a damn about her, Root, and not just the shit she gives you doesn’t  _ want _ her around all the time. Because you know what you’re like with routines. What the staleness of repetition could do to the two of you if ever you start seeing her escapes that way. What you could do to her. Hurt her when you genuinely don’t want it anymore. 

Thinking about it makes your stomach feel heavy so you don’t; you swallow it. You will her to stay away for appropriate increments and don’t think about that day while thinking that maybe that will be enough to make it never come. 

You’re not that naïve, but its easy enough to put out of your mind before the drinks start flowing. 

But you’ve had a few and  _ of course _ Root just so happens to come into this bar; just so happens to sit next to you. Has that stupid smirk on her face but isn’t saying a damn word. 

You’re think you are dreading the moment she does.

Because you don’t like her being here now that you’ve had a few (strong). Because when you’re like this, with your shoulders feeling pleasantly light and the edges of your perception rounded everything is a bit easier. The words flow from your mouth with more ease, smooth, with less trying. Moving, acting, everything still  _ you _ but done in a way that would never be comfortable sober. 

You really don’t like it. To any stranger you would still be gruff and tactless in your rejection, the same you as always, because you came here to just let some of the weight off your shoulders and nothing else, but with her you’ll bow; engage. Because you  _ like  _ her around. You’ll be smoother around the edges, deceptively receptive,  _ charismatic _ maybe…and just maybe she’ll like you better like this. As you but…not. 

The thought makes you bite the side of your tongue hard enough to taste blood (you are very aware that people have in the past liked you better like this; not drunk but pleasantly buzzed. Your youth was washed with people who made comments that implied you almost seemed ‘normal’ highlighting just how different you’ve always been). 

You roll your eyes to the ceiling. It’s a dumb thought train so you derail it immediately. The past doesn’t matter, it's happened it’s over. What matters is now, Root, and whether or not you see any signs of her being like them as they happen or otherwise not thinking about it (you still don’t want her to talk, though).

But  _ of course _ it’s like she can read your mind because it’s this moment she chooses to turn in her seat, lean towards you and place her hand just inside your thigh. 

You don’t move or turn towards her, just raise one eyebrow at her reflection in the mirror across the bar from you. 

Then she’s whispering in your ear, hand slowly inching up your thigh. The proposition both sexy  _ and  _ illegal (jackpot); so you bow, you bow so fucking hard. She just straightens up, throws a couple twenties on the bar and winks (her ridiculous attempt at one at least) at your reflection in the bar mirror and turns towards the bar's exit. 

You were definitely a little slack jawed so you quickly come to your senses, throwing the rest of your drink back and sliding off the stool, taking your jacket as you follow Root out the door. You leave the thoughts of Root and routines and  _ dullness _ in the bar, out of sight and out of mind, as you let yourself engage with Root on this next escape. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to write...something. And I was thinking about how drinking effects my 'feelings' or rather the lack thereof and the introspection that can happen. To get a taste for my interpretation of Shaw's pd (taken through the sense of my own pd w/blunted emotions) read nights like these. It gives more padding for the pd than this.


End file.
